


A Little Harder When You're Second Best

by shessocold



Series: The Circus [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Bisexuality, Casual Sex, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Jealous Sirius, Jealousy, M/M, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Voyeurism, Wireless Threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shessocold/pseuds/shessocold
Summary: 1978: Peter Guillam meets someone at a party.





	A Little Harder When You're Second Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuminousGloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminousGloom/gifts).



Up close, the man is much younger than the streaks of grey in his hair would suggest from across the room. _The boy_ , amends Guillam, not without a faint feeling of guilt. Probably in his late teens. Tall, on the slightly rumpled end of lean, rather good-looking in his own way. Almost certainly drunk.

_Impudent_. 

Guillam doesn’t, as a rule, leave boring parties in the company of men twenty-five years his junior. But the boy has been making eyes at him all evening, his demeanour getting progressively less and less subtle, and it feels quite rude not to offer him a ride home, at the very least. 

“No,” says the boy, his right hand on Guillam’s thigh as they speed through the chilly London night. It occurs to Guillam that they still haven’t exchanged names. “Your place.” 

*** 

Whatever Guillam had expected the boy to cry out as he orgasmed, it wasn’t the word “serious”. 

“I beg your pardon?” he says, pausing with his hand coated in warm ropes of semen. The boy curses under his breath. 

“Nothing.” 

Guillam uses his handkerchief to wipe his hand clean and stares at the puzzling creature lying half-naked in his bed. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Remus,” offers the boy, somewhat annoyed. He doesn’t ask for Guillam’s name, not that Guillam had any intention of telling him. The fabric of his shirt sticks to his sweaty chest. 

*** 

They end up meeting again purely by chance, in the middle of the night, at a petrol station. Remus, clad in a brown overcoat that has seen much better days, is shivering in the bitter cold -- Guillam briefly wonders if he could actually be living on the streets -- and looks quite happy to take up Guillam’s offer of a ride. 

“Where to?” 

Remus makes a face. 

“Back to yours?” he proposes, his casual tone strained in a way that doesn’t escape Guillam’s trained ear. Guillam nods. 

“I didn’t think I would see you again,” he says, after a while. Remus stares out of the window and doesn’t immediately reply. 

“On second thought, could you take me home?” he says eventually. 

Guillam, more disappointed than he’d care to admit, nods once more. 

*** 

“ _Fuck!_ ” cries Remus, as soon as Guillam pulls onto the street he said he lives on. “Stop the car, stop the car!” 

Guillam slams on the brakes. At the far end of the street, silhouetted against the orange glare of the streetlights, three figures are engaged in what he assumes is the immediate prelude to a gunfight. Two of them appear to be wearing long, hooded robes. Out of instinct, he reaches for his own pistol. _A trap?_ he wonders, his train of thought immediately interrupted by a sudden realization. 

Fireworks. 

The strangers at the end of the street are playing with fireworks of some kind, great jets of green and red sparkles dancing between them. He looks over at Remus, annoyed by his alarmism, and is surprised to find the boy pale as chalk and holding -- Guillam blinks twice, baffled -- some sort of polished stick in his shaky hand. 

“Fuck,” repeats Remus, his voice hoarse. “It’s the death eaters. Serious!” 

Guillam is on the verge of inquiring about his passengers’ familiarity with mental hospitals when his attention is grabbed by a loud bang. He turns around. One of the people playing with the fireworks is now lying in a crumpled pile at the base of a wall on the other side of the street. Someone barks a laugh. Remus makes a peculiar, strangled sound -- barely a moment of hesitation, and then he jumps out of the car, still brandishing his stick, and runs towards the commotion. 

“Wait!” cries Guillam in vain, and then he too is out of the car and running after Remus. 

“Serious!” calls Remus again, and one of the fighting figures turns his head. It’s a very young man, coatless despite the freezing temperature, and he’s holding the same sort of stick that Remus has, a jet of red light streaming out of the tip. His face splits into a broad grin at the sight of Remus. 

“Moony!” he says, brightly. “Took you long enough!” 

“Sorry about that,” says Remus, and he waves his stick in a very deliberate way. Red sparkles shoot out of it, and, to Guillam complete amazement, their hooded opponent collapses on the icy pavement, as if shot. Remus’ friend turns around. 

“Who’s that?” he asks, pointing his stick towards Guillam, who flinches. “Friend of yours?” 

“Yeah,” says Remus, with enough reluctance to break through the barrier of Guillam’s utter puzzlement and manage to offend him slightly. “Sort of.” 

“Muggle?” 

“Yes.” 

“Should probably obliviate him, then, shouldn’t we?” says Remus’ friend, staring at Guillam with frank hostility. He’s very handsome, and there’s a vaguely deranged glint in his eyes. Guillam remembers suddenly that he’s holding a pistol. 

“Drop your, er, stick, or I’ll shoot,” he says, aiming his gun at the young man’s heart. 

Remus’ friend snorts. 

“Pads, behave,” says Remus’ voice, and a whoosh of air hits Guillam sideways. He looks down: his pistol has turned into a bright turquoise water gun. Guillam, outraged, turns to his right to confront Remus. 

“How _dare_ you... !” 

“Listen,” says Remus, urgently. “I’m sorry I brought you into this. Can I trust you not to tell anybody?” 

“Moony, fuck’s sake, obliviate him already.” 

“My pistol!” 

“Look, I’ll give back to you, let me just walk you back to your…” 

“All right,” says Remus’ friend, in a tone of great exasperation. “I’ll just go upstairs, let me know when you’re done being all charitable to muggles.” 

“He can’t go upstairs,” says Guillam automatically. 

“Huh?” 

“It’s not safe, your… these people,” he says, gesturing to the unconscious hooded figures on the ground. “Are they alone? You said something about dead seekers.” 

“Death eaters,” corrects Remus. 

“Whatever their name is, they’ll come looking for you, once they realize what happened to these two.” 

A pause. 

“He sort of has a point,” says Remus, slowly. His friend is glaring at Guillam. “Maybe we should… well, spend the night somewhere else, don’t you think?” 

His friend looks extremely unconvinced. 

“And where do you suppose we could go, exactly? You know I hate how cramped it is at Headquar-” 

“Come back to mine,” offers Guillam, acting on a sudden impulse. The events of the night, he realizes, are so improbable, so logically disjointed that the only reasonable explanation is that he’s having a very weird, very vivid dream. He might as well try and see if he can steer his own subconscious towards a potential _ménage à trois_ with the two bickering young men. 

“Fuck off,” says Remus’ friend. He really is very sexy, in an insufferable sort of way. Guillam wonders if he and Remus are lovers — and if they are, what the devil possesses Remus to seek out the company of men like Guillam himself. 

“What about you?” says Guillam, addressing Remus directly. Remus looks conflicted. 

“All right,” he concedes eventually. “Maybe that’d be wiser.” 

*** 

The car ride to Guillam’s flat is excruciatingly awkward. Remus’ friend, who changed his mind once it became clear that Remus intended to follow Guillam home, sulks in the cramped backseat of Guillam’s sports car. Guillam drives in silence, trying to will his brain into letting him dream-fuck Remus, at least. Remus stares out of the window. 

“Can I have a word?” he says, once they get to Guillam’s place. Guillam -- slightly uneasy about leaving their companion on its own, but feeling quite melancholy over Remus at the same time -- escorts him to the bedroom. They’ve never kissed, he realizes suddenly. 

“Listen, er…” 

“Peter,” offers Guillam, catching himself by surprise. 

“Peter,” repeats Remus, with a tight smile. “We have a mate whose name is Peter. Good lad.” 

_’We’._

“What did you want to talk about?” says Guillam, shortly. He likes the boy a good deal more than he thought he did, he realizes, much to his annoyance. “Try and be quick. I don’t really trust your friend alone in my sitting room.” 

“I know,” says Remus, looking conflicted. “I just… well, I wanted to thank you. For the ride, and everything else.” 

A beat of silence. 

Guillam blinks a couple of times, suddenly disoriented. _High blood pressure_ , he thinks vaguely, staring at the faint impression of a bright flash of light on the inside of his eyelids. _I should probably get that checked out._

“I’m sorry,” he asks “were you saying something?” 

Remus shrugs. 

“Nothing important,” he says. “Let’s go back to the sitting room.” 

*** 

There’s a very good looking young man sprawled on Guillam’s sofa, his feet on the armrest, holding a glass of Guillam’s finest liquor. Guillam is reminded strongly and rather unpleasantly of Ricki Tarr. Alarmingly, he can’t seem to remember who exactly the man is, or why is he lounging around his apartment, seemingly completely at his ease. 

“Sirius Black,” says Remus, spelling out the man’s unusual first name for Guillam’s benefit. “Sirius, this is Peter.” 

_Strange, I don’t remember telling him my name,_ thinks Guillam distantly. His whole memory of his acquaintance with Remus, come to think of it, is remarkably muddled. He’s quite certain they met at a party (the previous day? Earlier that same night?), but beyond that… 

Remus coughs. 

Sirius rolls his eyes and swings his longs legs off Guillam’s sofa. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, holding out his free hand for Guillam to shake. He might have a bit of a Tarr air about him, thinks Guillam, but the way he talks is pure Haydon. “Thanks for your, ah, hospitality.” 

“You said we could spend the night here,” says Remus, reading Guillam’s face correctly. “And we’re very grateful, really. Spared us all the trouble of looking for a hotel room at this hour.” 

Remus is not a particularly skilled liar, but even if he were the look on his friend’s face as he speaks would clue even the most casual observer in on the fact that he’s making his story up as he goes. Their ineptitude is reassuring, and Guillam is curious, so he decides to play along. 

“Of course,” he says, sinking into his favourite armchair. “Something to drink, Remus?” 

“Better not,” mumbles the boy, his ears red. His reaction strengthens a suspicion Guillam has had since he heard him say his friend’s name -- he can’t quite recall the details (which is regrettable but only mildly worrisome, because his two guests really don’t look like they could have access to particularly insidious drugs), but at this point he’s almost positive that he and Remus have slept together at some point, and that alcohol was involved. He also knows for a fact that Sirius wouldn’t be pleased if he knew of their tryst. 

Remus joins Sirius on the sofa. 

“Lovely place you have here,” says Sirius, baring his teeth at Guillam in what could reasonably be constructed as a smile. “Do you live alone?” 

Guillam leans forward slightly. 

“Yes,” he confirms, holding the young man’s defiant gaze. “Currently, at least.” 

An angry flush is starting to creep up from under Sirius’ collar, much to Guillam’s amusement. 

“Pity,” says Sirius, and there’s an undercurrent of a growl to his voice. 

“What about you two?” asks Guillam, addressing the vaguely bewildered Remus in a breezy tone. “Girlfriends? Wives?” 

“We live together,” says Sirius, bluntly. Whether he realizes it or not (Guillam’s money is on the latter), his left hand has been moving steadily towards Remus’ leg over the course of their conversation. Guillam doesn’t hold much hope for the eventual fate of the glass he’s holding in his right. 

“Oh,” he says, feigning innocence. “Students, I assume? Smart decision.” 

“We live together _because we want to_ ,” insists Sirius, and it’s very hard for Guillam to stay serious in the face of such comical earnestness. Even Remus appears to have caught on. 

“It’s true,” he says, gazing at his friend with so much longing that (for the first time in many, many years, and not without a fleeting thought of Camilla) Guillam feels a pang of regret about his own lack of sentimental connections. It doesn’t last long. 

“I see,” he says, watching Sirius’ hand grip Remus’ thigh. Remus gasps softly. 

“I hope you don’t have a problem with that,” says Sirius, and by the look on his face Guillam would wager that what he’s really hoping for is a chance to smash Guillam’s nose. 

“On the contrary,” says Guillam, and he winks at Remus. 

Sirius’ dropped glass -- as predicted -- shatters upon impact with Guillam’s hardwood floor. 

“Sirius, sit down,” says Remus, grabbing him by the forearm. He’s staring right into Guillam’s eyes, and he looks rather pleased about the whole situation. After a moment’s hesitation, Sirius does as told. The hand he places on Remus’ thigh is much nearer Remus’ crotch than it was before. Remus glances sideways at him and grins approvingly. 

“As I was saying,” continues Guillam, his cock stirring inside his trousers, “I really, really don’t have a problem with whatever you two feel like doing under my roof. Quite the opposite.” 

Remus bites his lip. 

“Good to know,” he says, covering Sirius’ hands with his own. “Right, Pads?” 

“Yeah,” agrees Sirius, so engrossed by the situation that he hasn’t glared at Guillam in several minutes. Remus’ erection is clearly discernible through the fabric of his trousers, inches away from his and Sirius’ fingers. 

“Touch him,” suggests Guillam, his mouth dry and his cock hard and heavy. 

“Huh?” says Sirius, caught off-guard. 

“Touch him, you idiot. Can’t you see that he’s dying for it? Probably has for ages, if you ask me.” 

Sirius, suddenly very red in the face, opens his mouth in a fit of indignation. 

“He’s right,” says Remus, glancing at Sirius in a way that almost makes Guillam come in his pants. 

Sirius closes his mouth without speaking. For a moment, he looks simultaneously elated and deeply suspicious -- and then, evidently, elation prevails, and he starts undoing Remus’ belt. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” says Guillam, in a fit of generosity. It’s not like the last couple of minutes haven’t provided him with enough masturbatory material to last him a lifetime. He gets to his feet. 

“Please stay,” says Remus, with a filthy look in his pretty eyes. “Who knows, we might need a few more, ah, suggestions as we go.” 

Guillam looks at Sirius, who shrugs. 

“All right,” he says, grinning as he gets back into the armchair. “But only because you said _please_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please find enclosed a voucher for the smut scene, to be written at a later date. Happy Birthday!


End file.
